Death's Mistress

by Karen Chance

  I walked out into the hall, yawning. The stairs were basically kindling, with more missing than still in place, and the wallpaper hung in dispirited strips, a victim of the damp that had mostly receded. But the ceiling looked better than I remembered.

  It was still possible to see all the way up to the attic, but I was having a hard time figuring out which opening Claire and I had used to get the mattress down. None of them looked large enough for a twin, much less her queen. Even better, no more rain appeared to be getting in.

  I found Claire in the kitchen, wrestling with the ancient stove. Her hair was a limp mess around her flushed face, and her glasses were about to slide off her sweaty nose. The house has air-conditioning, but with the wards on full, it didn’t work any better than the lights. It had to be ninety degrees in there.

  The kids were at the table. Aiden had spread the chess set out on his half and appeared to be attempting to dry it out. He had stripped the soldiers of their armor and laid it out in a line on a paper towel, and was now struggling to get a small ogre out of its damp clothes. The ogre wasn’t too happy, but without its weapons, it could do no more than shake tiny fists.

  Stinky was at the other end of the table, sleeping. Or at least I thought so, until a pitiful groan erupted from the fuzzy lump. I walked over, trying to get a look at him, but he kept shielding his eyes.

  “He’s been sick twice since he woke up,” Claire told me, looking worried. “And he won’t eat anything. I gave him some aspirin, but it didn’t seem to help. I was about to wake you and ask if you want me to call a healer.”

  I pulled his head up and peeled the woven place mat off it. It left a checkerboard pattern on his cheek, which did nothing to hide the pallor and the under- eye bruising. I watched him for a moment, then went and got a dishrag and filled it with ice.

  “Sit up,” I told him. I was rewarded by a slitted eye glaring at me from under a snarled mass of hair, but no horizontal movement.

  “What are you doing?” Claire asked.

  “He’s not sick.” I pulled him up again and slapped the compress over his eyes. He mewled with protest until the cold started to work. Then he groaned in appreciation and flopped his head back down.

  “He’s hungover?” Claire asked, looking faintly appalled.

  “Considering that he drained most of a bottle of your uncle’s home brew last night? I’d say it’s a safe bet.”

  I squatted down beside his chair. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” I got a faint nod. “Are you going to stay out of my stash from now on?” A more vigorous nod. And then another groan. I decided he’d been punished enough.

  “Have you seen my cell phone?” I asked Claire, staring at the empty recharger in my usual morning haze. I always envied the types who could roll out of bed and be bright-eyed and sharp within seconds. It took me a good hour, and that was with the help of large amounts of caffeine.

  “No. Why?”

  “Since it’ll be a few days before any backup can arrive from Faerie, I thought I’d call Mircea. Get some protection down here.”

  Claire glanced up from the stove, brow furrowing. “What kind of protection?”

  “The Senate’s running short-staffed these days, but they should be able to spare a few masters—”

  “You mean vampires.” Her voice was flat.

  “It’s the Senate. What else?”

  Her expression tipped over into a full- fledged frown. “I thought about what you said last night, about what Aiden would bring in ransom. I think the fewer people who know he’s here, the better.”

  “I’m a little more concerned about the people who already know he’s here,” I said sardonically. “The house wards should stop the riffraff.”

  “They won’t have to if nobody knows he’s here in the first place.”

  “I’ll tell Mircea to be discreet.”

  “I’d prefer to let fey deal with fey.”

  “Olga’s boys are resistant to most magic, including the fey variety,” I told her, while rifling through the bread box. “And God knows they’re strong enough. But there’re only two of them, and they aren’t exactly deep thinkers. And whatever else I can say aboutsubrand, he’s not stupid.”

  “Neither am I. And I know better than to trust a vampire!” I couldn’t blame her for being wary. Claire had been kidnapped by Vlad on his recent rampage. She had every reason to mistrust the breed.

  “They’re not all the same,” I admitted uncomfortably. Louis-Cesare, for example, seemed determined to mess with my head, constantly challenging my preconceptions about what a vampire was and how one behaved. It was only one of many ways the guy was a pain in the ass.

  “You can say that when your job is killing them?” Claire demanded.

  “My job is hunting revenants—” She looked confused. “Vampires who had something go wrong with the Change.”

  “Wouldn’t they just”—she waved a spatula—“stay dead, then?”

  “Most do. But once in a while one will survive physically, but mentally . . . Let’s just say he’s not all there. And a revenant will attack anything—human or vampire—that gets in his way. And since he’s insane, there’s no reasoning with him. He has to be put down.”

  “And you’ve never killed any vampires other than these revenants?” she asked, skeptically.

  “I take commissions occasionally to hunt down vamps who have violated Senate law in some way. But I don’t go around killing random vampires.” I wouldn’t have lasted long if I had, no matter who daddy was.

  “I don’t see much difference,” Claire said, scowling.

  I thought about Mircea’s expression if he knew he’d just been lumped together with Vleck and a bunch of slavering beasts with little more brains than an animal. “You probably shouldn’t mention that view around any vamps you meet,” I said drily.

  “I’m not going to be meeting any.” It sounded final.

  “You ought to reconsider,” I told her seriously. “It’s easy to distrust something that views you as food, but right now—”

  “I don’t want those things near my son, okay? I’m sick of guards I can’t trust!”

  “They’ll be master-level vampires on loan from the Senate. They’re not going to do any snacking.”

  “I know they’re not, because they’re not going to be here.” She saw my expression and sighed. “Think about it, Dory. What could they have done last night, other than get carved to pieces?”

  “I think you might be surprised.”

  “Well, I don’t. I’ve seen what a fey warrior can do.”

  “And I’ve seen a master vampire in action.”

  She shot me an exasperated look. “Ifsubrand could get through the wards, he’d have done it, rather than resort to creating those things.”

  “Which he could do again.”

  “He knows that I can defeat them now. It would be a waste of time.”

  “And the next thing he comes up with?”

  “He’s not going to be coming up with anything today,” she said firmly.

  You hope, I didn’t say. Because it would have been a waste of time. Claire was as stubborn as they came when she was convinced she was right, which was frequently. It didn’t help that she usually was. I just hoped this wasn’t going to be the exception that proved the rule.

  I gave up on the phone and started looking for a mug instead. There weren’t any in the usual spots—scattered around the table, littering the counters or piled in the dishwasher someone had installed back when olive green appliances were all the rage. It didn’t actually work, but sometimes people stuck things in there anyway. But not this time.

  “What are you doing?” Claire asked, watching me.

  “Trying to find the mugs. They’ve all disappeared.”

  She rolled her eyes and opened a cabinet, and there they were—several rows of gleaming white cups, all perfectly aligned. She’d even gotten the stains out. Must be fey magic, I decided, pouring my morning brew.

  I took the coffee and p
icked my way up the stairs to my room. I found it suspiciously clear of ice, snow or even water. I kicked a heel against the old floorboards, and they seemed solid enough. There was some staining, but they were dry.

  Huh.

  The lights didn’t work, of course, but the holes in the ceiling let in plenty of daylight, plus a couple of birds who were poking around, checking out nesting opportunities. I ignored them and went to find my toothbrush. I’d located it before I remembered: the pipes had burst. I turned the faucet anyway, just for the hell of it, and a stream of water gurgled out into the rust-stained sink. I stared at it for a moment, perplexed, then shrugged and brushed my teeth.

  The shower also seemed to work, so I took full advantage, washing away the blood from the previous night and the sweat from this morning. The house was hot and, thanks to the rain, uncomfortably muggy. I was toweling off when I got sidetracked by a small square of blue.

  It had popped out of the tile work at some point in the mess last night and landed on the far end of the counter that held the sink. But it was currently on the move. I watched it skate across the linoleum and pop back into place, the yellowed grout filling in around it.

  I stepped cautiously out of the shower, staring at it, and something bumped my foot. I snatched it back and looked down to find several more AWOL tiles jockeying for position. They moved across the floor, one having a rough time of it because it got stuck in the fuzzy bathroom rug. But it plowed on and finally tore free, scurrying over the floor and up the wall as if magnetized.

  Once I started looking for them, I noticed a few more minute signs of change: stains on the floor slowly shrinking, a gash in the wallpaper closing up like a healing wound, a couple chips in the bathroom mirror melting back into the surface like ice into water. I quickly threw on some jeans and a tank top, ran a comb through my hair and grabbed a jacket to cover my not strictly legal arsenal. Then I padded back downstairs.

  “There’s something very weird going on around here,” I told Claire.

  She glanced up long enough to roll her eyes. “What gave it away?”

  “I’m serious. I think the house is repairing itself.”

  “I know.” She pointed the spatula at the front of the fridge, where several dents were popping back out, one by one, making small pinging noises.

  “How?” I demanded.

  “You know how it never lets us move anything or get rid of anything?”

  I nodded. We’d spent a lot of useless time when I first moved in, trying in vain to adjust the place to fit our lifestyle. But every time we threw something out, it was back in place the next day. And the house could be vindictive, with that odd sort of consciousness magical objects sometimes acquire over time. The last time Claire had tried a reno, half her clothes had ended up scattered across the front lawn.

  “I think Pip spelled the place to maintain the status quo, probably so he wouldn’t have to do any maintenance,” she told me. “But the ley- line sink has so much power that it tends to magnify spells, so . . .”

  “It got a little too enthusiastic?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  I glanced at the hole by the threshold that had been there since shortly after I moved in. “Not everything comes back,” I pointed out.

  “It’s a housekeeping spell,” she told me. “I don’t think it was designed to recognize demon blood. But more normal types of damage it should be able to handle.”

  “Then why isn’t it putting it back better?” I was taking in the same rust line along the top of the fridge door, the same warped cabinets above the stove and the same scuffed boards on the same dusty old floor.

  “Because it was designed to maintain everything exactly as it was at the moment Pip laid the spell. And I don’t think he cared too much about decor.”

  “So that stain on the ceiling in my bedroom—”

  “Is always going to be there, yes. Assuming the ceiling knits back.” She looked up. “I’m hopeful, but that was a lot of damage.”

  I stared up, thinking about all the weapons I could buy if I didn’t have to put a new roof on this thing. Of course the spell also meant I could never get rid of the ugly furniture, hideous wallpaper and outdated fixtures. But it wasn’t a perfect world.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I said, peering over her shoulder to see what smelled so damn good. I blinked in disbelief. “That’s meat.”

  She shot me an evil look. “I know. Don’t start.”

  “Are you planning on eating it?” I peeked under a row of paper towel-covered plates by the stove and discovered piles of bacon, eggs and toast. Considering that her usual breakfast had been wheat flakes and almond milk, it was a bit of a shock. But a good one. I filched a piece of bacon and pulled my hand back before she could slap it.

  She scowled. “No.”

  “This has something to do with going scaly, doesn’t it?”

  “It has something to do with my other half slowly driving me nuts!” Claire said, stabbing at the remaining bacon. “It keeps trying to influence me.”

  I thought it already had, given a few of her comments from last night. And that wasn’t such a bad thing. If ever a situation called for a little more ruthlessness, having a bunch of homicidal fey after your kid was it.

  “I’ve tried to compromise,” she groused. “I tried eating fish and eggs.”

  “Did it help?”

  She made a face. “No. It doesn’t want fish. It doesn’t like eggs. It wants big piles of meat—the rarer and the greasier, the better. It would prefer live, squirmy things that it could kill first, only it knows better than to ask for that. So it tortures me with dreams of steak and sausages and ribs grilling over a fire.”

  I grinned. “So you’re cooking all this to what? Torture it back?”

  “The kids have to eat something. And I wanted to make enough for the twins and for a snack for them later. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “How long you’ll be?”

  “Checking on Naudiz. It’s not the kind of thing anyone is going to discuss over the phone. I need to go in person.”

  “Actually, no,” I told her, stealing another slice. It was the good kind—thick, with a honey, peppery glaze. “You need to stay here with Aiden. I have to go in person.”

  “You don’t have my contacts,” she protested.

  “I have Olga.”

  Claire looked skeptical. “Your secretary?”

  “Her late husband was pretty well known in the supernatural weapons trade. And Benny wasn’t too particular about where he obtained his goods.”

  “And that’s a plus?”

  “It is if you’re looking for a hot fey battle rune. I don’t think that guard is likely to go through legit channels. Her people are more likely to have heard something.”

  “But I can’t just stay here and do nothing! That’s all I ever do!”

  “You’re not doing nothing. You’re guarding your son.

  And frankly, you’re a lot scarier than I am.”

  She shot me an exasperated look. “Thanks!”

  “You know what I mean. I can’t do what you can do, Claire. So let me do what I know how to do, okay?”

  I was surprised by a greasy hug. “You’re a good friend, Dory,” she told me fervently. I hugged her awkwardly back, my hands full of salty, fatty goodness. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been hugged this much in a twenty-four-hour period.

  She pulled back, blinking, and I pretended I didn’t notice. “Do you want something before you go?” She gestured at the stove. “There’s plenty.”

  “I thought all we had in the fridge was beer and mayo.

  And I wouldn’t trust the mayo.” I’d caught a small troll with his head in the jar a few days ago, eating it like candy.

  “Olga sent enough for an army over with the twins.” Claire pulled a jar out of the fridge and frowned at it.

  “You haven’t seen them eat yet. It was probably lunch.”

  “How much more should I make?” s
he asked, eyeing dishes on the stove.

  “Beats me. I’ve never actually seen them get full.

  Anyway, I have to go, before everyone I know turns in for the day.” I topped off my coffee and headed out, before she could ask why there were tongue marks in the mayonnaise.

  Chapter Nine

  I found my duffel bag in the car and my cell inside the duffel, so things were looking up. The Camaro itself had some obvious new dents and smelled a little mildewy, but it started, so I counted it as a victory. Ten minutes later, I parked it next to a mini-mart that looked like any other in Brooklyn from the outside.

  It did on the inside, too, at least in front. Customers could prowl the deserted aisles, buy rubberlike hot dogs, get a scratch-off card and stock up on overpriced toiletries, all while being ostentatiously ignored by the staff. The locals had eventually gotten tired of the lousy service and gone elsewhere, which of course had been the point. There were rumors that the store was a front for mob activity, drug running and/or gambling.

  The truth was a whole lot weirder.

  The back room was accessible through a brief hallway and a speakeasy-type door. I bent down and knocked, because the eyehole was roughly in line with my navel. A tiny green eye peered back at me suspiciously. “What?”

  “Open up. It’s me, Dory.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because you’re looking at me?”

  “Turn on the light.”

  I sighed. “It is on.” There were half a dozen hundred-fifty-watt bulbs in the overhead fixture, enough that I could feel their heat slowly frying my brain. Not that it mattered. Troll eyesight is universally terrible, and no spell I’ve ever heard of seems to help.

  There was a low-voiced conversation on the other side of the door. “You don’t have to whisper. I don’t speak troll,” I said helpfully.

  “You should learn,” a familiar voice said as the door swung back.

  I was still bent over, giving me a view of about a mile of shiny black leather encasing two massive thighs. A flick of the eye downward showed me a pair of high-heeled slides adding another three inches to an already towering height. Three gnarled toes peeked out the end, the usual number for a Bergtroll, or mountain troll. Although most don’t have nails painted high-gloss red.